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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962357">in the palm of your hand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts'>wormguts</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Batman &amp; Robin (2011), Bonding, Cute, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Batman, Fluff, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, Random &amp; Short</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:48:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962357</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold little toes wriggle against Dick’s thigh. </p><p>It is perhaps a bit delayed that Dick draws a striking conclusion: he is an idiot.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Damian Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>168</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in the palm of your hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Something pure to cleanse myself.</p><p>Set during Batman &amp; Robin (2011). All you need to know is that Bruce is (presumably) dead, so Dick takes over as Batman and Damian's parental figure.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Cold little toes wriggle against Dick’s thigh. Curled up against his side, Damian is the only solid thing keeping Dick's thoughts from seeping out his ears and through the open window.</p><p> </p><p>It is perhaps a bit delayed that Dick draws a striking conclusion: <em>he is an idiot.</em></p><p> </p><p>It’s a Tuesday night in April. The sun has long since gone to sleep, the moon a point of solace on the horizon, bathing the room in shadows the color of ash. Damian’s small body is tucked under Dick's chin, heavy, grounding. A soft hand grasps him in an almost desperate way.</p><p> </p><p>"Damian," he murmurs. It isn't the first time he's broken the spell, whispered into the void only to have the void spook and scurry off into the night in a stolen shirt of his. But it is the first time Dick has touched him.</p><p> </p><p>Damian stiffens under the hand on his arm, like Dick expected him to. It's almost as though he's waiting for Dick to yell at him, waiting to be told off and sent back to his room.</p><p> </p><p>"Damian," he says again, this time more alert. Damian's grip on his shirt hasn't faltered. He's holding on like he's scared Dick is going to push him away.</p><p> </p><p>Dick swallows around the urge to pull him closer.</p><p> </p><p>"What are you doing here?" he asks as gently as he can. It's been a month since the last time this – this <em>thing</em> happened.</p><p> </p><p>Damian is as still as a corpse. Dick heaves a sigh, rubbing at his straining, bloodshot eyes. Maybe it’s a bit more than cowardice that keeps him from asking the hard questions here. He learned long ago when to push and when to pull, but Damian's a revolving door. Damian came to <em>him</em>; he’ll either speak or he won’t, but is there logic in trying to force that door open?</p><p> </p><p>Dick wishes this wasn't a thing. This – whatever this is started a few months ago. Damian got it into his little head that Dick was worthy of his trust and then never really let go. He used to crawl into bed with Dick sometimes when he thought he was asleep. He’d stay on the other side of the mattress as far away as he could, anxious, tense. Dick thought he just wanted the company. Maybe he'd had nightmares.</p><p> </p><p>But as time progressed, Damian got bolder. Eventually, he started slipping under the covers with Dick, his nose pressing against Dick's chest to breathe him in, relax. Eventually, he let himself squeeze into Dick's space, to seek his warmth and take comfort. Dick thought it was cute. It <em>is</em> cute, unbearably so. Damian had never been <em>cute</em> before. <em>Terrifying, powerful, stubborn, little,</em> maybe, but not cute.</p><p> </p><p>He just kept getting cuter.</p><p> </p><p>And for some inexplicable reason, Damian trusts Dick. Dick, in turn, trusts Damian.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it's for this reason that Dick cups Damian's cheek, turning his face upward to see his eyes. If they trust each other, he knows Damian will let him help.</p><p> </p><p>"Why are you here, Damian?" Because the cowardly voice in his head can’t bear the pressing: <em>why do you trust me? </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>It comes as a momentary surprise when Damian doesn't immediately move away, nor run back to his room like the devil is on his heels. But, maybe Dick should have known better. “I... I wanted something,” he admits, barely audible. It’s a stark difference to the Damian of the day, who demands what he wants, the world be damned. The Damian of the night is soft.</p><p> </p><p>Dick strokes a thumb over Damian's cheek. “What did you want?” As he watches the boy blink, his big, green eyes flitting everywhere but settling on Dick's, a thought occurs to him. “Are you okay? Did something happen?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Damian admits in a whisper. He closes his eyes and presses forward. Dick winds his other arm around Damian. He wants him to feel safe. Protected.</p><p> </p><p>“You can talk to me, you know,” Dick says and hopes he sounds approachable and whatever else nighttime vigilantes are supposed to be for their sidekicks.</p><p> </p><p>In a lot of ways, the kid reminds him of a scared animal. Damian’s this young, wounded puppy, who only knows to be scared and resentful. It’s not the dog’s fault its owners were neglectful; he’s just starving for the smallest crumb of love and affection he can get.</p><p> </p><p>With a start, Dick realizes <em>he’s</em> the puppy’s owner now. He’s the one responsible for the poor thing’s wellbeing. He’s supposed to be nurturing the animal back to health, teaching it to play nicely with other dogs, how to play frisbee, how to trust others again, how to <em>be a goddamn dog.</em> Christ, what is he <em>doing?</em></p><p> </p><p>Damian's eyes open again and regard him strangely. Dick doesn’t blame him.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like five seconds and five years all at once before Damian's cold little toes wiggle against Dick. Dick allows himself to relax a small degree.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong, Damian?”</p><p> </p><p>A sigh seeps out of Damian’s body. Dick doesn’t dare move to comfort him, no matter how strong the urge. He wants to hug his small boy to his chest and never let go. But that would forever end the conversation. Damian has opened up as much as a revolving door will ever open: one wrong move and it swings shut – and back again, hitting him in the face. That he's even touching Dick right now, allowing himself what small reassurance his pride will permit... he must be more wound up than Dick thought.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you... do you think Father liked me?”</p><p> </p><p>The question is stupid. Dick’s eyebrows reach for his hairline, disappearing under the mop of hair on his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course he liked you,” he responds, though the twinge of concern he hears in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed by Damian. “He <em>loved</em> you, Damian, you’re his son.”</p><p> </p><p>Damian makes a noise of complaint. “I think he hated me,” he spits. His face scrunches as though he bit into a lemon. Dick knows that look very well. It’s the look that means he wants to cry but won’t allow it.</p><p> </p><p>“I know he didn’t make it seem like he does, but he cared about you. No one here hates you.”</p><p> </p><p>“...You don’t hate me?”</p><p> </p><p>This question is arguably stupider than the last. Dick feels it like a punch to the gut. He recognizes the telltale signs of guilt sinking bone-deep into his psyche, shaking him around like a rag doll. He promptly buries those thoughts and feelings. He wants to hurt, he really does; but the question is genuine, from a place of insecurity, and Damian would never mean it like that.</p><p> </p><p>“Damian,” Dick begins slowly, “why would you think I hate you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Damian bites his lip, answering honestly. The clock on the end table ticks loudly, the only sound breaking the silence around them. Dick searches the younger’s face as if for an explanation. Damian doesn’t seem to have one.</p><p> </p><p>Not one Dick will ever be able to decipher, at least.</p><p> </p><p>“Is there something bothering you?” Dick urges. “Something I don’t know about?”</p><p> </p><p>Damian nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>Damian's eyes flutter closed. He breathes out a humorless laugh. "What use would talking about it serve? You aren't my psychologist, Grayson."</p><p> </p><p>Dick ignores this to trace Damian’s dark eyebrow. The moon filtering through the open window casts shadows across the boy's smooth skin. Dick traces that too.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't understand you," Damian murmurs.</p><p> </p><p>Dick hums. Damian's face is surprisingly soft. It shows none of the harsh lines from harsher expressions worn in the daylight. It's small between Dick's hands. Warm. It's probably just as warm and soft under his lips.</p><p> </p><p>Damian squeaks and shoves Dick away. "What are you<em> doing?</em> Did you just—just <em>kiss</em> me?"</p><p> </p><p>That gets Dick laughing. Damian makes indignant teakettle noises at the display, but it only succeeds in making an overwhelming sense of <em>fond</em> wash over Dick. This is his boy. His Robin.</p><p> </p><p>"I think you're overthinking this," Dick decides, and Damian, in typical Damian fashion, crosses his arms and scowls. Dick smiles at him. "Bruce took you in, a stranger whom he had no idea existed, let alone is his biological son. He let you be <em>Robin</em>, taught you all he knows and accepted you into the family. He wouldn't do that for just anyone; you <em>know</em> that."</p><p> </p><p>Damian's little mouth pulls down in a pout, though he'd kill anyone who called it that. "He took in two orphans and a street rat just fine." Dick pinches his bare calf. "I'm getting very tired of your playing, <em>Grayson!"</em> He punches Dick in the arm, who pretends it doesn’t damage his pride a bit.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I <em>never!”</em></p><p> </p><p>”Fuck you.” Damian ignores Dick’s reprimand of<em> “language!”</em> to plow forward: “I never had a place in this family. I don’t understand why it took my father’s <em>death</em> to bring us to this point. We don’t even <em>resemble</em> a family, let alone <em>friends!”</em> </p><p> </p><p>That stings more than it has any right to. Dick swallows. Distantly, he rubs at his arm, thinking hard about what to say. The fact of the matter is that he doesn't know why it took Dick's death to bring them closer together. Was it Bruce’s presence that inhibited their friendship? Or was it Bruce’s absence that brought them closer emotionally? It's probably a mixture of both.</p><p> </p><p>But—</p><p> </p><p>"How... do we not resemble friends?" he dares ask.</p><p> </p><p>There's steam shooting out of Damian’s ears. He sits up, seething, his muscles pulled tight, ready to lash out. "We are partners."</p><p> </p><p>Oh boy.</p><p>  </p><p>"The way I see it," Dick begins slowly, "we are family first, partners second." Damian opens his mouth to object, but Dick holds up a hand. "Just hear me out, okay? I'd do anything for family. And I mean that literally. There is a very, <em>very</em> short list of things I wouldn't do for any <em>one</em> of you, and that's only because of personal morals. We're <em>family</em>.</p><p> </p><p>"You know how it is with partners. Heroes cycle through sidekicks and partners like nobody's business. That deeper bond isn't there, you know? What I'm trying to say is that while yes, we are partners, we are family first. You get that, right?" He looks to the boy hopefully, only to have the breath sucked from his lungs a moment later when Damian punches his arm again. "Ow, you little brat! I'm trying to help you and this is how you repay me?"</p><p> </p><p>Damian snickers, lying back down next to Dick. "It is what you deserve, <em>Grayson</em>," he whispers.</p><p> </p><p>"You know what I think you deserve? Another kiss!"</p><p> </p><p>Damian howls as Dick tackles him, grabbing his face and planting a big, wet, sloppy kiss onto his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>"Unhand me, fiend!" he cries, but his cold little toes wriggle under Dick, so Dick knows he doesn't mean it. </p><p> </p>
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